Downton Drabbles
by sakurasencha
Summary: Drabbles for various prompts from various places. Many characters and pairings. Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_After taking a look, I realized that I had written about 3000 words worth of drabbles, so thought I would share them. These were all written as part of the prompt challenge over at the Downton Abbey forums, the link for which you can find in my profile. I hope all of you can pay a visit to that lovely site, where there is much DA discussion and love, plus plenty of other drabbles much better than these._

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Patmore - Sister<strong>

She'd quit her post as kitchen maid as soon as Ellen had died. Gone home to while away her time sleeping and engorging herself on sandwiches.

It was some months before she stumbled upon her late sister's diary. The years of bitter words and burning rivalry were washed away with the words she found on those pages. Admiration. Adoration. Inspiration. Love. That she considered HER the better cook, that she aspired to be like HER someday.

She went back into service that same week, a new fire in her bones amidst the ashes of tragedy. She'd told her sister she'd be the first to make cook , and when she finally did, there were no tears in her eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Daisy - Breaking Something<strong>

She'd been William's first friend when he first came to Downton. They were both rather new there and took comfort in the shared inexperience and clumsiness that came with any new position.

When Daisy broke that old pitcher, the one in the back that no one ever used, it was William who helped her glue the pieces back together, consoling her all the while, and it was his long arms that placed it back on the tall shelf where no one would ever find it again.

That was months ago, and now Daisy's mind is filled with dark hair and smart smiles.

"Do your buttons up," that smile says.

"Go on then" she happily chimes back.

When she looks into William's eyes, she realizes that it's not only old pitchers that can be broken, and that some things could not be so easily fixed.

* * *

><p><strong>Thomas - clocks<strong>

There was a time when Thomas thought there was nothing so beautiful as the innermost parts of a clock.

When he was a young boy, he watched his father's soft and deft hands as they put the delicate pieces together, and marveled as the gears moved together so precisely.

He remembers the day when the dissatisfied Lord came in, roaring with anger and smashing his father's work to the ground. His heart thumped and his face burned. What was beauty and delicacy, to raging power and absolute authority?

Thomas watched his father silently pick up the shattered remains, and despised him.

* * *

><p><strong>Branson and William - scarlet<br>**  
>"Don't you ever miss home?"<p>

Branson looked up from his book. It was one of the footman. William? He had just started working at Downton and was always terrible with names.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're a lot farther off than any of us. I know I couldn't be so far from family. How do you manage?"

The sun was starting to set, the purple tones and scarlet hues reflecting in William's expectant face.

"I haven't lived with my family for a while. You go where opportunity is, where you can make a better life for yourself. That's really all that matters. Besides," he added, turning back to his book, "the sun sets here in England just the same as it does in Ireland."

William sat down to watch the scarlet twilight turn to gray, the pang of homesickness that never quite left still aching within, and wondered if he would one day be able to say the same.

* * *

><p><strong>Rosamund to Mary - How I met your mother<br>**  
>Rosamund received the telegram in the early hours and was on the first train out of London. Now she was sitting in the drawing room of her old home, staring into the face of her infant niece.<p>

"Mary," she murmured. "A pretty name, though not very strong. Well, little one. You have your mother's nose, but will you have her temper as well?"

Mary only stared in response.

"You know when I first met Cora, she all but tripped over her train and couldn't curtsy to save her life. I pitied your father then."

Rosamund looked up as Cora glided in, strong and beautiful, her labor pains of the night before all but vanished from her smiling face.

"I don't pity him anymore."

* * *

><p><strong>Edith and Sir Anthony - is this the end?<strong>

Edith had learned that The End could take on many forms.

Sometimes it came in utter tragedy. A beloved cousin, a future heir, drowned in the freezing waters of the Atlantic.

Usually The End was not so dramatic. A new acquaintance, an anticipated church visit, would soon give way to disinterested conversation and a passing remark about her more beautiful sister. This particular ending came more often than Edith cared to think about.

The worst way, Edith now knew, was when there should have been no end at all. When fortune was all but in her hands, and she only had to reach out and grasp it.

"Is this really The End?" Edith inwardly asked as her eyes followed Sir Anthony's retreating figure. And although Mary said no words as Edith glanced in her direction, she knew in her heart that it was.

* * *

><p><strong>Mary and Patrick Crawley - I thought you were dead!<strong>

Mary was beginning to grow desperate. She and Edith had gone over most of the grounds and there was still no sign of the hidden cousin they were meant to seek. At last they stumbled upon a prostrate form lying under the great oak. He was so silent and still, and his skin so pale, that at first Mary, in her childish imagination, had assumed the worst.

She hurried over and when Patrick at last opened his eyes (for he was only sleeping), Mary flung her arms around his neck and cried, "We thought you were dead!"

Eleven years later Lady Mary lies in her bed thinking of that day. She tells herself that she did not love Patrick, did not want to marry him. But she still cannot stop the tears from stinging her eyes, and despising herself for it.

She sits up and rallies. She tells herself that Patrick is not really dead, for he is only sleeping under the oak. She repeats this over and over in her head, until she feels herself again, and knows that she can finally face her father.

* * *

><p><strong>Robert - heirs<strong>

James, he imagines, had drowned. He was older than Robert and not very strong. He would not have been able to escape the pull of the boat as it sank.

Patrick was young and resourceful. Robert thinks he would have found a way to avoid being sucked into the Titanic's watery tomb. His body would be preserved by the icy waters of the Atlantic, a floating emblem of the tragedy that struck in the night.

With Matthew he can't decide. He would be buried by now, he reasons. But he doesn't know whether he would have had his own grave or been conveniently tossed into a massive pit, along with farmers, butchers, and the like.

Robert asks himself what curse must lie on the title Grantham that would require of it four heirs in as many years.

* * *

><p><strong>Servants - Simnel Cake<strong>

Mrs. Patmore opened the oven and beamed. It had come out perfectly, much as she expected, and her face flushed with the praise she knew she would be shortly receiving for yet another sumptuous Simnel Cake this Easter.

As she sliced the cake her eyes lingered on the sugary spheres of marzipan, a delicious, if not quite reverent, way to honor the disciples of the Lord.

"Thomas," she mused, "would certainly be Thomas. A surer doubter never existed. And Anna," she continued, her mind now buzzing, "would be Peter. That girl's both loyalty and passion in equal measure."

"Mr. Bates, well, he would be Levi, for there's no question that man is running from something. William," she sighed, "loving child, of course he's John."

"Mr. Branson - no doubt - Simon the Zealot. Always going on so passionately about what, I'll never know, and Daisy," here she stopped to laugh, "I'd call her Judas but he don't have any place on this cake."

Mrs. Patmore hurriedly laid out the slices as the sound of footsteps drew closer, and smiled as she met their happy faces. Yes, it would be another fine Easter.

* * *

><p><strong>Isobel and Violet - "What should we call one another?"<strong>

"Well we could always start with Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham!"

...

Those words rang in Isobel's ears whenever she sat down with the Dowager after dinner. Whenever they squabbled over the latest development at the hospital. Whenever they took tea and discussed the latest impediment to Matthew and Mary's courtship.

It seemed like so long ago, that strange introduction at the Abbey. Isobel considered the woman sitting next to her now. When it came to medical practices, garden shows, and women's rights, there was almost nothing they could agree on.

But when it came to the two young people, standing before them now, that they both loved so dearly, Violet and Isobel found that there was no argument or debate to be had. Their happiness was all that mattered, and both women could put aside practically anything to secure it.

As Mary and Matthew sealed their vows with a kiss, Isobel knew what she could now call the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

Friend.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hughes - Branson loves Sybil<strong>

Elsie had been meaning to do something about the "situation" for a while. When she saw him reading alone in the servant's hall one afternoon, she knew she had found her chance. She had tried using vinegar before; this time she would try a bit of honey.

"It's a wonder that a man like you shouldn't have someone." Elsie smiled charmingly as she sat down. "A fine young man, with a good job. Steady and educated, obviously going places in life and-," she continued, laughing lightly, "-quite handsome, if I do say so -"

"I know what you're trying to do Mrs. Hughes," Branson interrupted as he looked up from his book. His piercing gaze was a match for her iron stare. Long minutes passed as they sat that way, silently measuring each other. Branson suddenly took her hand in his.

"Believe me I am flattered, but..." here he stopped and patted her hand fondly. "I mean no offense but I'd prefer someone closer to my age." At this he rose abruptly and retrieved his coat from the back of his chair.

"Now if you'll excuse me I must be off. I'm to take Lady Sybil to Ripon."

Elsie realized this was going to be harder than she thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil and Branson - wonderland<br>**  
>Sybil had been an adventurous child, and had always preferred the reality of her storybooks to the one she actually lived in. It was for this reason that she would often pretend herself Alice, and scour the vast grounds of Downton for rabbit holes that she might fall into.<p>

Sybil is older now, and has come to realize that the world she lives in is much more adventurous than she once thought. She has even met her own Mad Hatter, but instead of taking her to tea parties he drives her to political rallies, and instead of speaking to her in riddles he explains Suffrage and Socialism.

It is not quite the Wonderland that Sybil had once dreamed about, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

><p><strong>Evelyn Napier – Discoveries<strong>

Evelyn stared in silence at the letter in his hand. The contents themselves were shocking enough, but it was the signature at the end that had left him speechless.

"It is from Lady Edith," he at last managed.

The Ambassador only nodded. A tumult of emotions passed through Evelyn in that moment. Anger. Regret. Confusion. But what surprised him most was the pain he felt on Mary's behalf, the ache in his heart as he thought of her troubles, and his sorrow that there was nothing he could do to remedy it. He had just been faced with one overwhelming discovery, only to be overcome by another:

He was still in love with Lady Mary Crawley

* * *

><p><strong>Vera and Rosamund – the Perfect Lady's maid<strong>

"I think it's time we understood each other, Vera Bates."

Vera stopped tying up the strings of her mistress' corset and stared at Mrs. Painswick's face in the mirror. She'd taken this job to get closer to that rat of a husband, and now she had been found out.

Vera quickly considered her options. From the look on Rosamund's face she was not best pleased at being deceived. Vera began doing up the corset strings again, tighter and tighter as she went along.

"What's that ma'am?" she said. "You'd like it done up tighter?"

"No…no. That's….that's quite tight enough," Rosamund gasped. "Please…too tight…you must loosen them," was all she managed before her vision swam black and she collapsed to the floor.

Vera looked cooly down at her late mistress. She knew she would never be blamed. Mrs. Painswick was notorious for favoring a slender silhouette, and the perfect lady's maid always did what she was told.

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil and Branson – wishing on a star<strong>

Branson knew that if he wanted his dreams (and oh how he had them) to come true, it would take effort and determination. He'd worked his way up in service, read as often as he could, and even left his native shores of Ireland in pursuit of his goals. Now he was the chauffeur for a grand Earl, and though it was further than where he started, it still wasn't where he wanted to end.

Lady Sybil had found this all quite wonderful when he explained it to her, and had told him that, "When I was younger, I used to think that to get what I wanted I had only to wait till midnight and make a wish on the brightest star I could find." She looked away suddenly, obviously embarrassed at the admission. "But I suppose you'll think me very childish and silly."

The truth was that he did often find her childish, but the less rational part of his brain also found her charming and beautiful and enchanting, and as time went on he increasingly felt himself to be in danger. He knew he should confirm her suspicions, but instead what came out was, "Not at all, m'lady. Sometimes we all need a little help making our dreams come true."

It wasn't at all what he really thought or believed, but when she turned her eyes back on him and smiled, Branson knew that he was going to spend a late night staring up at the sky.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hughes – maternal instinct<strong>

Ordinarily, a single woman wasn't allowed anywhere near a bachelor's room, but this was no ordinary day, and Elsie felt she could make an exception. By the time she had reached the small cottage, he was nearly finished packing his things.

"Come to tell me how foolish I've been, Mrs. Hughes?" he asked when he answered her knock. Elsie wouldn't take the bait. He'd have enough chastisement from other quarters and she wasn't here for that.

"What will you do now?" she asked instead.

"I've some friends in London. They'll help me get another job. Of course I won't ever be a chauffeur again." He sat on the bed and held his head between his hands. He looked so tired and worn and pitiful then, that Elsie's maternal instincts won her over, and she felt compelled to sit beside him.

"There, there, lad. It'll be all right in the end," she said, placing a comforting hand on his back. "I did try to warn you, that you'd end up with no job and a broken heart." Elsie couldn't see his face, but she felt his shoulders tremble gently at the mention of her warning, so many months ago.

Her heart wrenched and went out to the poor lad. She longed for nothing more than to take him in her arms, brush away his tears, assure him that it was all for the best, that time would heal everything, that -

Her motherly train of thought was abruptly broken when she saw that it was laughter, not sorrow, which had overtaken him. He looked up at her with a smile, mirth dancing in his bright blue eyes.

"Now who said anything about a broken heart?"

* * *

><p><strong>Violet - Embarrassed<strong>

The Countess of Grantham sneered as her son led his fiancé into the ballroom. Of course he would have her, despite all the protestations. She may have connections and good breeding aplenty, but what of her dowry, what of her pecuniary contribution that the estate so desperately needed?

So insignificant as to be almost negligible.

She stood by his side, her frock worn and outdated, the dull jewels adorning her neck obvious copies. Violet seemed oblivious to the smiles and snickers of the exquisitely attired guests.

"How embarrassing," Lady Grantham muttered under her breath.

...

The Countess of Grantham scowled as her son led his new wife into the drawing room. Of course her would have her, despite all the protestations. She may possess the money they so desperately needed, but what of her family, her connections?

What of love?

She stood by his side, bungling her courtesy and laughing in that obnoxious way peculiar to Americans. Cora seemed oblivious to the horrified looks and long side-glances of the well-bred guests.

"How embarrassing," Lady Grantham muttered under her breath.

* * *

><p><strong>Anna and Gwen – kaleidoscope<strong>

Her first day, when the house had seemed so large as to almost swallow her, and Anna had taken her by the hand and shown her around, room by room.

Holding the letter telling her Richard had died, and Anna had held her close, letting her sob unabashedly for her baby brother.

Sweeping the broken fragments of the vase she knocked over, and Anna had rushed over to help hide the evidence and promised not to tell.

Sitting on a bed, overwhelmed with the knowledge that she would never achieve her goal and leave this place, and Anna had comforted her and sworn that she would.

A kaleidoscope of memories dances before her eyes; each scene blends brightly and beautifully into the other. A bittersweet mosaic of her colleague, her friend, her sister, while Mr. Bromage's car sits idling in the drive.

"I suppose it's time to be off," she says, and Anna hugs her tightly.

"I'll miss you."

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed :). And if you are so inclined please visit us all on the forum!<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Not as much content as I would have liked for a "chapter" of drabbles, but I wanted to get these out before S2 aired since some of them may become a bit AUish once it does. There may be some vague spoilers for S2 (though nothing too drastic)_**.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Downton Abbey Halloween - Whole Cast<strong>

She had never liked Halloween. A holiday full of masks and costumes, where one could never tell what lay behind the facade, and where nothing was ever what it seemed.

A stage performer masquerading as a Dignified Butler. Two lovers posing as a Lady and her Chauffeur. An old, blind woman acting as a Fine Cook. A compromised and ruined daughter playing as a Lady of Virtue. A rich American costumed as a Well-bred Countess. An alcoholic and thief parading as a Noble and Trustworthy Servant.

Sometimes, it seemed to Lily, everyday was like Halloween at Downton Abbey.

* * *

><p><strong>Mrs. Hughes – Books<strong>

She trailed her fingers along the endless row of hard spines, her head slightly tilted to better read the titles.

How easily she lost herself in those pages of adventure and romance, of mystery and murder, of sorrow and joy. That marvelous world of novels, so unlike her own mundane and ordinary existence. But each time she turned the last page of her book she realized that there was one thing they held in common: their tale had ended, just as hers had ended so many years ago, when she accepted the final promotion to housekeeper.

It didn't occur to her, the closure of her life's story, until Joe had come with his offers of a new life and a new start. Too busy to see time slipping by, till one day you find that the road you've chosen is so far traveled that there's no turning back and starting anew.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mrs. Hughes?"

She looked up startled to see the butler standing nearby.

"Not exactly," she replied. "I've finished _Gulliver's Travels_ and was looking for something new to read."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I did." She smiled ruefully before responding. "Although it made me a bit jealous, reading about those far off lands, and myself having never left England."

Carson scoffed. "What do you need travel for? You know plenty enough about life without that, I can assure you." He returned her a more cheerful smile and added, "Besides, what would we possibly do here without you?"

His question was posed almost as an afterthought, but as he uttered the words his voice took on a tone of wonder, as if contemplating for the first time what her absence would really mean for Downton, and for himself.

He looked at her with new eyes and in new ways, and was surprised to see his look mirrored in her own. They stood that way, measuring the breadth of possibility, until he could meet her gaze no longer.

"I should be off. Goodnight, Elsie." He hastily left before hearing her own amazed farewell.

"Goodnight, Charles" she whispered.

Perhaps her story wasn't finished after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Lady Sybil is Inspired<strong>

Sybil had always been easy to inspire.

A particularly charming rose could later find its pink hues sewn into a new frock by Madame Swan. A pretty cloud floating lazily in the air soon had its amorphous swirls stitched into a pocket square for a father's day gift. A cheerful birdsong may have its refrain played sweetly back when the piano master wasn't attending. The whole world lent its beauty to her mind, but it wasn't only in objects or nature that the young lady could be inspired.

When Sybil was six years old, she caught Mary tripping Edith while everyone's back was turned, prompting Patrick to roar with laughter. Mary smiled meanly while Edith's face turned red and weepy, and Sybil decided then that it wouldn't do to be so nasty.

When Sybil was seven years old, she watched Edith tear her own watercolor to shreds because everyone thought that Mary's was better. Mary had been tasked with an easier landscape and Edith's painting was still rather good, and Sybil thought then that it wasn't healthy to be so envious.

When Sybil was eight years old, she overheard Mary and Edith arguing over who would nab the best husband. Mary flaunted that she could have Patrick and Downton and be a Countess just like Mama if she wanted, while Edith countered that Mary could have all that with a slice of cake, for she was free to choose her own husband and had bigger fish to catch. Sybil silently added that she'd rather marry for love anyway, and that it didn't seem right to be so concerned with status and money.

The years fly by, ten in all, and the inspirations continue to trickle in, shaping the woman she's growing to be without her even noticing; till one day Branson whispers such exciting news in her ear that she claps and jumps with joy as they both run off together.

"You've done it, Gwen, you've got the job!"

There's laughter and happiness, and Sybil revels in the triumph of her friend, while somewhere, not far away, her sisters are doing their best to ruin each others lives. Sybil shares a joyous hug with her friends, and thinks that, of everything and everyone in her life, her sisters really had been the best inspiration after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Cora and Mrs. Hughes - We'll need to make some cutbacks<strong>

Cora Crawley, sixth Countess of Grantham, was knitting socks.

Heaven help her, but there she was, doing her best to aid the war effort with what minimal skills she possessed, and growing increasingly exasperated with her constant need to unravel the pitiful attempts and cut away the knotted and ruined threads.

_How utterly wasteful_, she rebuked herself. _And in a time where we really can't afford to waste anything_, she added, thinking back to the conversation with her housekeeper earlier that morning.  
><em><br>"We'll need to make some cutbacks, m'lady."_

_"Cutbacks?" Cora had asked, alarmed. "We're already rationing meat, sugar, dairy…what more could there possibly be?"_

_Mrs. Hughes offered a small and weak smile._

_"Plenty."_

Cora tried to contain the slight twinge of bitterness at the recollection. Her home requisitioned as a convalescence hospital, wounded soldiers filtering in and out, recuperating, recovering, and sometimes dying; yet even without that, which she really did not begrudge, Cora still felt she had sacrificed quite enough already to the dreadful chaos consuming the globe.

She snipped at another frayed thread of yarn.

Mary, pining after a love who threw himself head first into the duty and honor of the front, hopeless enough to engage herself to an unscrupulous and much older businessman.

_Snip_

Edith, hardly ever at home these days, running around the estate and its environs in a desperate attempt to fill the vacancy left by hundreds of young men, no time to find the love and companionship she secretly yearned for.

_Snip_

Sybil, in turns filled with elation at her newfound career in nursing and despair at the images of horror it wrought, spouting political ideology that sounded more and more like their radical chauffeur's every day.

_Snip_

Her own husband, distracted over his commission to home and headquarters, more concerned with what he is not doing than what he is doing, abdicating responsibility and worry of family affairs onto Cora's weary shoulders.

Cora sighed loudly, and her inattention to the scissors resulted in a slight nick on her palm and a sharp wince of pain.

"Are you all right, m'lady?" O'Brien cried, rushing towards her. "Look at you! You're bleeding!" O'Brien didn't ask permission before forcefully removing the knitting needles from Cora's hands. "We can finish that up later. Here, let me wrap your hand in this towel."

_Dear O'Brien. Always so protective_, Cora thought warmly, happy that there was at least one thing the carnage of worldwide conflict had not been able to cut away.

* * *

><p><strong>Carson and O'Brien – Those Left Behind<strong>

For O'Brien, sympathy was a bit like alchemy: grand in theory but impossible in execution.

Still, there were a few vague stirrings in her heart that she couldn't quite name when Carson came barging through the door, reeling over the recent disaster of Branson-as-footman.

Mrs. Hughes was no longer the support she'd once been. _I can't see that having Anna serve in the dining hall once in awhile would be so very dreadful_, she'd actually had the audacity to say. O'Brien had been within earshot, and glanced over to Thomas for a smirk. Her friend was too lofty to share in such banal amusement these days, and instead agreed with old Hughsie and blathered something about how there were more important things to think about with a war on.

O'Brien watched the old butler stumble into a chair set across from her. It was difficult, when one half of a pair decided it was time to move on from the comfort of tradition to something a bit bigger and better than what the old world had to offer, with no thought or care to the other half they left behind.

And that was something O'Brien could sympathize with.


	3. Chapter 3

_So I've been on a bit of a drabble rampage recently. I honestly think I won't be able to write anything longer until series 2 ends and my heart can stop palpitating. This set is somewhat Branson-rific, which I might try to make some excuse for, if I didn't think he was so utterly amazing. These were all written before episode 2.04 aired, so some may be a bit AU.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil and Branson – Things best left unsaid<strong>

_She saw it coming._

Saw the earnest spark set off in his eyes that first alerted her, the suspicion confirmed when her light-hearted farewell was returned with something much more tender. He removed his hat – a familiarity reserved for when he had something truly important to say; and she saw what was coming, managing only a mumbled and panicked "Branson!" before he plunged right in.

_She tried to warn him._

Tried to fend off any further advances with what little space his onslaught of words left her. He began with an almost-apology, a sidebar on what he knew was right and ought to be. "I wish you would," she tried to warn him, but Branson would never heed what society considered the proper order of things, just as he would not heed her desire that he say no more.

_She wanted to say more_.

Wanted to tell him how much she admired his goals and pursuits and dreams and _him_. That she'd never known a man so passionate for what he believed in, who wasn't afraid to hope for a different world and a different place for him in it, how his hope had transferred to her, and made her believe that the world truly would be different – one day. But she'd blundered her words, condensed them all down to a trite _I'm terribly flattered_; and though there was more, so much more she wanted to say, there was nothing more he wanted to hear.

_She didn't mean to make fun._

Didn't mean to laugh at his remark – though honestly she had found it rather funny – but it was so astute and cheeky and so utterly _Branson_ that the titter practically fell from her lips before she had time to snatch it away. His following look and plea shredded her insides to dull confetti, for she had never meant to make fun of him, even if she really did think his barb sounded more like him than anything else he'd said that morning.

_She meant to be silent._

Meant to let the void span between them till it was filled with so much unease and fidgeting that it would drive him or her or them both away. She knew no other way out, had no reply that wouldn't only make everything ten times worse, so she withdrew her eyes and closed her mouth and meant to stay still, and cold, and silent.

_She feared his threat._

Feared that he would make good his vow to hand in his notice and be done with Downton, with her, forever. A fleeting image of a hobbled old man coming round with the car who cared nothing for politics or suffrage or justice churned her stomach to curdled knots. But it was the threat of who wouldn't be there, not who would be there, that she feared the most when she whipped her head back and cried, "No, don't do that!"

_She would never tell._

Would never betray him to her father or let it slip out as Anna dressed her for dinner. Would never let even the barest hint of it flutter through her teeth while smiling at Mary over why she was chatting with Branson in the garage. No, she would never tell. They would never hear it from her.

Yet even more closely guarded than his secret is the one that is lurking, crouching like a predator in her mind, frightening in its audacity yet thrilling her with possibility. This secret she will hide in the farthest corner of her heart, let it exist untouched and undisclosed, till such a time as the world may be ready for it.

She could tell him, she supposes. The forbidden knowledge might ease the pained outline in his eyes whenever he looks her, or restore the bright smile that used to play on his lips whenever they were alone together. Except she knows that it won't, that it will only increase his longing and desire and frustration.

So she stays the words, and measures her sentences, and decides that she will never tell. She was raised a lady, after all, and knows only too well that there are some things best left unsaid.

* * *

><p><strong>Violet and Isobel – Getting Along (and scaring everyone else in the process)<strong>

"Lady Grantham!" Isobel addressed the Dowager with a happy, almost exuberant grin. Matthew's face held half a gape and a slightly quirked eyebrow, unsure whether shock or confusion should be the reigning feature.

"Lady Grantham?" Violet repeated the greeting with mock indignation. "My dear Isobel, when have we ever stood upon such ceremony?" Mary's mouth formed a silent "O" while her eyes widened to saucers.

"Well then, _Violet_ - if you really will insist - I've come up to the house to see you specifically." Matthew backed away several paces from his mother. It was a complete lie, of course; at least he thought it was. What _was_ the reason they had sought out the company of the great house again? Oh yes, tea.

"I should certainly hope so," Violet replied, pouring a cup. "It's been nearly a fortnight since we've last had one of our chats. I was growing quite bereft of your company – no one here comes even close to matching your skill at a verbal spar." Mary felt she should be offended, as the last person with whom her grandmother had been "sparring", but any notions of offense were duly put out by growing disquiet and alarm.

"Is…everything all right, Granny?" she tentatively asked.

"Why yes, of course! Especially now that dear Isobel is here!" Violet exclaimed brightly, tacking on a dismissive, "Oh…and Matthew, too, of course," almost as an after thought.

Mary rose from her chair beside the Dowager just as Isobel hurriedly (eagerly?) moved to occupy it. She sidled up to Matthew, wariness evident, while he whispered in her ear conspiratorially.

"I don't like this, Mary. They're much too…pleasant – getting along, even. It can't bode well. Shall we…?"

"There's an empty drawing room down the hall. And the gardens are in full bloom this time of year, if you'd rather some fresh air."

"I would rather," Matthew smirked smartly, and the two made hasty farewells to their antecedents, along with a speedy escape.

Inside the drawing room, one of the seated matrons spoke.

"It appears we have done it. Mary and Matthew: alone at last. The first time since we managed to rid ourselves of Miss Swire and Sir Richard."

"We pulled that act off quite admirably, if I do say so. Now it shall only be a matter of time," came the reply, two teacups clinking together in the sweet sound of victory.

_Three hours later…_

Mary and Matthew burst into the room, both flushed with the giddiness of love requited and promises exchanged. Mary was looking rather…disheveled would be the most decorous word, while Matthew's lips were rather suspiciously full and rosy.

"Mother! Cousin Violet! You will never believe -"

"What?" Isobel cut in, "that you're engaged?"

"Well, yes," Mary answered with an unsure quiver in her voice. She wavered for a moment, until comprehension dawned and she narrowed her manicured eyebrows knowingly. "You arranged all of it, didn't you? Granny? Cousin Isobel? Come, now, confess!"

A pair of satisfied (smug?) smiles would be the lovers' only answer.

"So does this mean you're not _actually_ friends?" Matthew inquired, snaking an arm around his new fiancé's waste.

"We're allies, Matthew," his mother informed him, "which can be a great deal more…" Isobel trailed off, searching for the right term.

"Effective!" Violet supplied. "Now, would anyone care for some more tea?"

* * *

><p><strong>William, Branson, and Bates – Boys Night Out<strong>

Carson squeezed at the bridge of his nose and screwed shut his eyes. He was getting far too old for this.

"It weren't our fault Mr. Carson! Honest!" pleaded a scared, young voice.

"He's right, Mr. Carson. The fellow was asking for it," came a second, more steadied opinion.

"He had that one coming!" an Irish brogue concurred.

All plausible excuses, yet Carson refused to open his eyes. The truth of it was he really couldn't see the point. It would still be the same ridiculous scene set before him as when he had first closed them, and he preferred the blotchy blackness of the backs of his tired eyelids to the bruised and bedraggled faces peering imploringly through heavy steel bars.

"And…had any of you been drinking?" the butler asked, capping it off with a mild groan of resignation.

A sheepish "Perhaps a beer or two–" interrupted by a brash " –only a small shot of whisky!" followed by an indignant "Me mam would turn in her grave if she'd ever knew I'd been drinking!" was the jumbled reply.

"Very well then, if you're all properly sober," Carson ignored the chauffeur's sudden burst of giggling, "then please be so good as to explain to me exactly why this entire affair is _not_ your fault and why this poor chap–" here he referenced a fourth and decidedly unconscious occupant of the cell "–as you so aptly put it – _had that one coming_." Through pitch-black serenity he heard the three intakes of breath as one.

"We were just minding our own, having a drink–"

"–William excepted, of course -"

"–and this fool comes over, bold as you please, and just as drunk–"

"–honestly, Mr. Carson, he started it all–"

"–going on about Mr. Bates being a cripple–"

"–and then he called Mr. Branson a stinking Irish–"

"–embarrassed poor William by branding him a coward–"

"–so you see Mr. Carson, we were left with no choice–"

"–it was a matter of honor, of upholding our dignity–"

"–he was spoiling for fight, and so were we!"

Carson's eyes snapped open at that. The blurred outline of three disheveled bodies focused into crisp vividness, in the center a man poised like a Promethean figurehead, eyes gleaming, fist raised defiant in girded conviction. Said champion failed to notice his fellow cellmates inching slowly away, disassociating themselves with space and averted gazes.

"You were spoiling for a fight?" Carson wondered aloud. Even more of a wonder: why had he ever allowed this "boys night out", or whatever it was they had christened it, to occur in the first place? He had never thought any good could come from revelry or carousing of any sort, but had assumed the three most senior members of his male-staff could retain some measure of decorum during a simple gathering of merriment at the local pub.

"That's right, Mr. Carson. You send a couple of lads down to the pub: Broken hearts and a war on – you know! Men dying every day, and still no freedom for Ireland! What do you expect? So there we were, all of us nursing a broken heart along with a drink – even William – don't mind what he says! Did I tell you he called me a stinking Irish?"

It wasn't even the most incoherent of his speeches, but it was possibly the shortest, the chauffeur choosing at that moment to collapse himself and his sloppy grin untidily to the jailhouse floor. Carson eyed up the remaining offenders, frightened footman and valiant valet, before coming to a conclusion.

"Right. You three are staying here for the night." Carson raised a firm hand to any protest. "I'm still not entirely certain how a small altercation over a few insults spawned into the massive brawl you're all accused of starting, but you're to cool your heels here until I – and Lord Grantham – decide what will be best to do with you."

The butler turned wearily towards the exit, deciding he'd have to make a stop at the local pub on his way home – he needed a drink – as weak echoes of a lilting "he had that one coming!" followed him out the door.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: Daisy - "We can remember minutely and precisely only the things which never really happened to us." (Eric Hoffer)<em>

**Woolgathering**

Burnt scones and soup that boils over: Mrs. Patmore asks where her mind has gotten too. Daisy cannot say – three seconds ago she was flying through the plains of the Dakotas, shod wild in draping beads and leather atop a chestnut mount that ran with the wind. Still etched in her eyes are tall stalks of swaying wheat, while the echoes of hooves thud distantly in her ears.

She recalls all this, and a thousand details besides; but for the life of her cannot say what time the scones went in the oven or the last time she remembered to stir the soup.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: Matthew and Mary talk about Pamuk<em>

**As We Forgive Our Debtors**

_She will not look at him. She will not cry. He will know her shame, and he will not forgive her_.

"Matthew, before you leave, there is something you must know – something I need to tell you."

Already his eyes seek hers, a moth to a flame, so mesmerized by amber glow that it will brave the danger of heat and scorch; yet still cautious, for having been burnt before.

Steadying breath. Gulping swallow. The confession pours forth: Clumsy. Hurried. Un-Mary-like, is all he can think – when he allows himself the indulgence. Otherwise his mind is utterly blank, save for a single, burning question.

"Did he force you?"

A strangled cry – "No."

"Then you…you invited him?"

Revulsion in her voice – "No!"

"He came to your room, unbidden?"

Hesitance, embarrassment, but most of all: confusion.

"Yes."

Mary knows of men – her father, the servants, Lords and Gentlemen who make coy and idle chatter and dance prettily at parties; but Matthew _knows_ men, and now knows what type of man Kemal Pamuk was.

"Mary!" he cries. Once, an age ago, he had considered himself sacrificed, delivered at the altar of mercenary interest. His heart pieces together, along with the puzzle of her actions at the garden party, so long ago. If he had never before understood Lady Mary, inscrutable and clever and lovely Mary – _his_ Mary – then he does now.

"Oh, Mary!"

She stares into his eyes. She weeps. He knows her shame.

He says there is nothing to forgive.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt - Sacrifice<em>

**With Great Privilege**

The conversation had frozen - it was clear Cousin Mary preferred to be somewhere else. Amid her perfunctory replies her eyes grazed ravenously over the other guests until she seized an opportunity of escape: A pleasure, Cousin, but she really must take her leave, had been meaning to catch a word with His Grace all evening.

She left him then, without a single backwards glance, cool and vacant air filling the empty space where once she stood. He felt chilled and disappointed, till a breath of warmth drew closer - Cousin Edith was making her way towards him, swathed in sun-dyed hair and a summery smile. They spoke all night, of books and music and the state of the estate, engaged in conversation the way they never could be in matrimony.

For Patrick Crawley understands that with great privilege comes responsibility, and duty, and most of all - sacrifice.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt – Sacrifice<em>

**Acceptable Losses**

_Well_, he thinks, _he's got the look. Head down, walking too fast – off to cause trouble, no doubt. And young, just like they all are. Swaggering about in the middle of the street as if there isn't a war on, as if the whole place isn't covered in danger. Audacious – that's what it is. That's the look they all have._

But a waver of doubt._ Suppose I am wrong? _

Then a fist that clenches in anger._ Even so, what would it matter? Casualty of war, yes? Acceptable losses – that's what they call it. A necessary sacrifice for the greater good_.

And finally somewhere deep and hidden. _(Not that he doesn't deserve it. Not that they don't __**all**__ deserve it)._

_Yes, _he decides, pulling the trigger, _he's probably a rebel._

* * *

><p><em>Prompt – Distraction<em>

**First Lesson**

"Exciting, isn't it?" Lady Edith called out, a bubbly grin marking her enthusiasm. "I'm sure we'll make a good go of it, don't you Branson?"

There were many things in life that Branson was sure of, and making a "good go" out of teaching the middle Crawley daughter to drive certainly wasn't one of them. But luckily for him, he'd spent enough time in service to have a complete arsenal of ambiguous replies at the ready.

"Very well, m'lady," he drawled, deferentially opening the driver's side door for Lady Edith to hop inside.

...

_Honk! Honk!_ "I suppose that never gets old, does it Branson?" _Honk! Honk!_

Branson had been mid-explanation of the finer intricacies of double de-clutching when Lady Edith had made her gleeful proclamation.

_Honk! Honk!_

A few passing pedestrians gawked up in annoyance, a stray cat bolted at the grating blare, and Branson was almost positive Lady Edith didn't notice the hand surreptitiously rubbing his temple.

_Honk! Honk!_

"Very well, m'lady," he dissembled politely.

...

The car lurched painfully onwards. Lady Edith seemed to think she was making great strides in mastering the art of transportation.

"I think I'm getting the hang of it, don't you Branson?"

Forbearing a response, he continued his stream of instruction, and in due time the car travelled more steadily, the engine stalled less frequently, and on the whole progress was made.

They were now ambling down a more populated road, Lady Edith flush with accomplishment, Branson with hand clutching heart and foot flooring imaginary brake pedal.

"Oh, look! It's John Drake! One of my father's tenants, you know."

"If you'd just like to keep your eyes on the road, m'lady–"

"Hello, Mr. Drake!"

"Please, m'lady! There's plenty you need to watch out for. Try not to get distrac–"

But his pleas went unheeded; the warning came to late. To both passengers' horror and with a magnificent _crash_ they found themselves and their rather expensive automobile imbedded into the side of a nearby fruit stand.

Lady Edith laughed nervously.

"Well. Not too bad for a first lesson, I dare say. Wouldn't you agree, Branson?"

Silence followed, punctuated by the _plop plop plop_ of small round fruits cascading down the windshield.

"Very well, m'lady."


	4. Chapter 4

_Prompt: Branson – You were so poorly cast as a malcontent_

**Tom Branson and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week**

The idea came in a flash of brilliance (or rather a glob of oil) that struck like lightening in his mind (or rather splattered ignobly onto his nose). Branson grabbed a rag and began scrubbing ferociously. A thousand oil changes under his belt would never ensure that he came away from the task unstained.

"The Injustice!" Branson shouted at the carburetor; and he meant more than just a face full of oil.

...

Later that week, a pail full of tarry sludge stowed neatly in the back corner of the garage, found Branson penning another heated and painfully detailed letter To Whom it May Concern:

_Dear Sirs_ (it began), _you're article last week concerning the Irish struggle for independence_ – but the remainder of the missive would never be read by pince-nezed and pompous editors; the passionate words and well-thought out reasonings would remain forever lost to the smudge of black pooling out of the overturned inkwell. Branson crumpled the sheaf in his hand. A thousand letters to a thousand newspapers would never ensure that his voice would be heard.

Branson never bothered to rewrite his letter, instead deciding that there were better uses for the ink.

...

Strolling back from the village a few days later, nose buried in the latest socialist tract, half a dozen others clutched under his arm, Branson groaned when he felt his foot sink not onto the hard packed dirt of the lane, but rather into a squishy, odorous pile of what was most definitely a cow loaf. Branson tore up the leaflets of his compatriots and let the shreds sail away with the wind. A thousand soldiers fighting a thousand battles in a thousand countries would never ensure that the war would be won.

He walked on, letting the natural friction of his foot on the road clean off what it may from his soiled shoe, knowing with certainty what he would do with whatever of the cow pat remained when he returned home.

...

The next day Branson wandered into the kitchen at teatime.

"Watch your head, Mr. Branson!" Mrs. Patmore warned amidst the chaos: flour flying, pans banging, and Daisy close to tears. Branson managed to ask over the roar of frenzied cookery for the location of the milk, since none had been left out for the servants' tea. Daisy tearfully pointed to a bottle in the corner.

The contents were rather chunky, and Branson stared dubiously at the off-white swirls looping grossly throughout the liquid, before taking a tentative sniff. It was spoiled, all right – beyond foul. He sneakily slipped the bottle behind his back. He had no pithy statement to add to the act, but was elated enough at having procured his final, perfect ingredient to care too much about his lack of internal eloquence.

...

_Misplaced letters, failed schemes, wavering resolve, and a manhandling by Carson – a proper malcontent you are not._

_...  
><em>

Branson studied his reflection, still gussied up in footman's livery, from the washstand mirror. In the low lamplight he appeared to himself as something of an actor, a copy attired in strange apparel and sinister intentions – a plotting footman ready to poison the soup.

He'd been dismissed to his cottage by Mr. Carson, left to stew in the misery of his own making; but there was a small flaw to the butler's chastisement, for Branson's heart now contained very little heat for braising. One glance back at her smiling face and the boiling pot of bitterness, of rage, of mounting frustration, had fizzled into lukewarm disappointment. That was what she did to him; that was her power over him.

Branson tore off the stark white gloves and shrugged out of the coattails. Quick as a switch he changed his outfit, unbuttoning the waistcoat, undoing the tie, stripping off the malice, the anger, the resentment, stepping out of the role he'd cast for himself as a scheming malcontent, till Branson could gaze contentedly at himself once more, liveried up properly in his chauffeur's uniform. Beginning to feel himself again, he smiled, a true and real smile – the first all week.

_A thousand days, a thousand months, a thousand years. A thousand lifetimes I'll wait for you, cherish you, love you – even if I can never be sure that you'll one day be mine._

Branson saw his reflection smile back, and knew he was much better cast as an idealist.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: Distraction<em>

**Never Enough**

Matthew peered over the lip of the trench. In the inky darkness of no man's land he saw ebony strands coifed to perfection.

Matthew listened to the explosions overhead. In the piercing shrill he heard cutting remarks uttered with ease and poise.

Matthew inhaled the warm vapor. In the rising steam of the mug in his hand he felt wisps of hot breath tinged with wine and sandwiches.

Blood and glory, bullets and guns, bombs and gore. Death and misery – an entire world at war – would never be enough to distract him from _her_.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: Scars<em>

**Unmarred**

…_so when you see me next, Sarah, you need not be worried. I'll look much the same as I ever did. All limbs accounted for, and no ugly scars to mar my face and make you as disgusted with your baby brother as you are with everyone else in the world…_

When Sarah O'Brien next saw Peter he was just as he claimed: physically whole, visibly unscathed, and as insufferably aloof as always. And though every ounce of his letter had technically been truth, lies of omission can still be just as deceptive.

Her return to Downton had been met with the addition of a new valet. On the surface unharmed and unmarred from his time on the front, but the devil was in the details, and not even the smallest minutiae ever escaped Sarah O'Brien's notice:

Trembling hands stitching up seams. The slightest wince when a pot clattered to the ground. An unfocused gaze set so faraway that Sarah wondered at times if his vision really could transcend through brick and ocean to view those bloody mazes a hundred miles off. While the staff and family waltzed through their respective duties or leisure without much thought to the quiet man, that haunting stare never for a moment strayed far from Sarah's mind.

She knew that look. She had seen it before.

All limbs accounted for and flesh unmarred, indeed. But Sarah knew the terrible reality that sometimes scars ran much deeper than flesh or bone.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: Introductions<em>

**An Inauspicious Beginning**

He was tall – shoulders above everyone else in the ballroom – and handsome. Her breath quickened as he locked his eyes to her, fussing with her fan as he approached, scolding herself for every minutiae of ill-breeding that he no doubt detected as the introductions were made.

He bowed.

"How do you do?" he asked, smooth baritone melting her like a candle left in the sun. It left her breathless, compounding the evil work already done to her lungs by the corset strapped tightly from hip to bosom. It took every effort to control her airflow and keep from toppling over on the spot, and for a moment an awkward silence reigned, till a sharp jab to her ribcage reminded her – the curtsey, ah yes, the curtsey!

Clumsily she fulfilled her part in the introduction, ignoring the snickers and quiet coughs coming from behind her. Such easy elegance seemed almost inbred to the guests surrounding her, but their silent and not so silent strictures would not daunt her. She held no illusions – she was no Lady, after all, even if she wanted to be.

If he was embarrassed for her he did not show it. Indeed, his face was a more a mask of impassivity than a vehicle for expression as he said, "Well, Miss Levinson. Now that we have been properly introduced – may I have the honor of claiming you as a partner for the next set?"

"Yes, of course!" she replied too quickly, with too much enthusiasm. "The pleasure is all mine!" He bowed again, and left.

Her eyes followed him till their turn on the floor came. He returned to her side, and Viscount Downton at last took her dainty hand in his, effortlessly leading her about the floor, at times literally sweeping her off her feet. Their chatter was idle, but pleasant; his grip was firm, but gentle; and by the end of two dances spent staring hopelessly into his dream-colored eyes and hanging on his every syllable Cora knew that she was gone, taken, heart won over completely by this stiff-backed English Lord. And he…

Cora watched his uninterested gaze as he swirled her about the ballroom, monotone voice dripping his perfunctory replies with mechanical ease.

He was completely indifferent.

* * *

><p><strong>a (foot)man's best friend<strong>

Everyone knew that Thomas' blood coursed cool and calculating, but even he at least had the decency to feel slightly abashed at the way Isis backed away on his approach, paws crunching in the days-old snow.

"Come on, girl. I told you I was sorry, didn't I?"

She gave a high-pitched whimper, then spun two full circles before plopping on the wet ground and covering her nose with her paws. Apparently not all had been forgiven.

"Look, here," he said. "I've got something for you. A little treat, yeah?" Isis moved tentatively forward as he squatted down, sniffing at the beefy slab of meat suspended in front of her. Its scent was undeniable, and after a tentative lick she gobbled it up straightaway, nearly nibbling at the tips of the giver's gloves.

"Careful, there," he warned. "I just bought these gloves." The floppy head tilted to one side, tongue lolling out in inquiry. "Nothing to worry about. Just decided to also give myself a treat, is all, after my promotion."

He removed one of his new gloves, extended his hand towards the panting face, and allowed for a few minutes of uninterrupted and sloppy licking, all the while pretending to be thoroughly disgusted.

"Nasty thing," he sneered as he wiped the saliva against his trouser leg, but his voice grew a few degrees warmer when he said, "But I couldn't have done it without you."

Isis barked. Communication between man and beast is often difficult, but for some odd reason Thomas felt they both had a way of comprehending each other. Isis seemed to understand that the footman was a lonely sort, not much used to companionship or displays of affection, and sensed the sentiment underlying his words.

_Thank You._

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: deep<em>

**Trifling**

On the surface he was just as he appeared: harmless, kind, and loyal. In a flight of fancy she had once grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his lips, never guessing the depths of devotion that were stirring in his breast.

"If you were my girl, Daisy, I could face anything."

Their courtship progressed at such a breakneck speed that Daisy barely had time to catch her breath. One day friends, the next week courting, and a fortnight later she was engaged to be his future bride, perfectly aware that her own feelings for him barely skimmed the surface of her heart. But as long as he was away, far, far away, knee deep in mud and duty hundreds of miles from Downton, she didn't have to contemplate the forbidding outcome of her lies, or let the consequences of her deceit penetrate too deeply into her conscience.

He came back to them, for the final time, bruised and broken, his life balancing on the tip of a needle. They told her it was the lungs, ruptured deep within where the hand of medicine could not reach it. She cringed to hear his wheezing breaths, and cowered when he determined to use the last of them to speak to her.

He wanted to marry her, still. He wanted to provide for her in death the way he would not have the chance to in life. She protested.

"But it's not cheating, is it?" he countered. "We love each other, don't we?"

She could not say no.

They were married. He expired. Three days later Mrs. Mason watched as they lowered the coffin into the grave. The wooden box was simple and plain, yet now she knew what lay beyond the façade, of the boy inside with affections that ran as a wellspring, pure, deep and abiding.

There are few tears, but much remorse, for if she had known – if she had only known – she would have never dared to trifle with them.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: winter wear<em>

**Rookie**

Anna peaked over the mountain of Winter wear that was currently being shoveled into her outstretched arms.

"Is that about the last of it?" she asked, catching a glimpse of O'Brien's immovable fringe over the fingers of a pair of woolen gloves.

"Are you daft?" the lady's maid scoffed. "I've only just emptied the first drawer."

Anna was physically taken aback, the sudden movement causing the assortment of fashion to wobble precariously. Intellectually she understood the indecent amount of clothing the Crawley ladies possessed, but still…

"It seems a bit much. How many hand muffs can one woman possibly need?"

O'Brien just managed to keep her snort in check and shot Anna a withering look.

_Rookie._

"Do you want to stand in as maid for Lady Mary or don't you?"

"Of course I do!" There was no use dwelling on the significance of O'Brien's expertise compared to the meagerness of her own, and with determination she told Sarah to take a cigarette break while she finished organizing the Ladies' winter clothing.

Two hours later O'Brien re-entered the bedroom-cum-wardrobe. Innumerable piles of clothing were laid neatly on the bed, each item meticulously folded and painstakingly arranged by size, color, and thread gauge.

"Not bad," O'Brien conceded. "Not good, either, but it is only your first day."

It wasn't quite an alliance, but it was something close – solidarity – and O'Brien was beginning to grudgingly admit to herself that it might be nice to have someone else to commiserate with.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: bundled<em>

**Swaddling**

Drowned twigs collected in the early morning and logs pilfered from the neighbors' yards are what she uses to keep the meager fire going during her first winter as a mother. Ethel holds her infant close to her chest and scoots them both as close to flames as she can, eyes entranced by the dying embers while her backside slowly succumbs to a dull numbness that she counts as relief from scorching sting.

More than once she has considered her options. What she might do, what she ought to do, is leave him with a kind family; proper parents with a proper rooftop, and too tender hearted to abandon a screaming baby to the elements raging outside their doorstep. She's watched them all plenty enough to know the suitable candidates – the butcher's family would do, and his wife who wears about her a capable, confident air as she strolls down the lanes, a wake of five bouncing and healthy children trailing after her.

But she cannot commit. His pudgy face and tiny fingers and distinctive cry shake loose any resolutions of surrender and bid her instead to bargain. As Ethel watches the last flame in the hearth flicker to ash she makes an oath: If she can keep him safe and warm through this night, bundled up tight against the harsh winds that rattle through the cracks in the window frame, then she would prove herself worthy to keep him for at least another night longer. Quickly she undresses – her sweater, her apron, her stockings – every scrap of clothing comes off until Ethel's left in nothing but a thin chemise and undershirt, cradling a tightly wound bundle of mismatched garments in her arms.

In the morning each limb is like lead, heavy and unfeeling, but Charlie is yet sleeping, none the wiser that his home is a hovel and his swaddling rags. He is content and warm. The morning sun is mercifully bright. Ethel removes some of the extra layers from the sleeping form, redresses herself, nestles her baby in a swatch of sunlight warming the floor, and leaves to collect the stray twigs and kindling that she'll need to restart the fire.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading :)<em>


	5. Chapter 5

**Edith - Lucky**

A gurgle of spit interrupted Edith in her soliloquy. She dabbed at the tiny mouth and continued.

"Actually, I think it must have all started with Papa. The legend goes that he married Mama – my Mama, that is, but I suppose you would call her Granny. Anyway, he married Mama for her money and it took him an entire year to fall in love with her."

The baby gave a short cry at such an offense.

"I completely agree," Edith replied, rocking the bundle in her arms. "And then there's your own mother! They've both been very mum about their courtship but even they can't hide the fact that Branson had been at Downton a full seven years before they ran off together."

This time the baby laughed. Apparently this tidbit would prove useful to her in later years of life.

"And as for your Aunt Mary…" Edith scoffed. "First she wants Matthew, then she doesn't want Matthew. And don't get me started on the number of people that had to _die_ to facilitate the union."

Walking towards the window, Edith stared out at the summer's lawn being doused with gallons of water. "They're a cruel lot, those Crawleys. Except for me, of course. I've no one hanging on my every word, waiting for me to make a decision. And if I did I wouldn't make them wait years and years to get it." She sighed. "The odd one out, as usual."

The grass was green and sparkling, much the same as Lady Edith's eyes.

"Promise you won't tell anyone I said this…" Edith said, bending her face down low over the tiny bundle to whisper in secret the next part, "…. but you should feel very lucky to be born a Branson."

She laughed again in response, and Edith smiled.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt – upstairsdownstairs_

**Edith, Mary, Branson – Sister Drabbles**

A proper opening eluded him when his protégé strolled like brass through the open garage doors, and so, like any well-taught servant, he said nothing, and simply nodded.

"Good morning, Branson." Her tone was bright and bold. Certainly not unwelcoming, and he replied in kind.

"Good morning, m'lady."

"Seeing as how you're still here, I assume you've cleared things up with Sybil?" she asked with overt nonchalance. Branson had to remind himself that he was standing on very thin ice indeed.

"Clearly, m'lady."

"Good." Lady Edith walked idly over to car bonnet, which at the moment was propped open, and ran her hand down the gleaming paint with a fondness he thought held by no one but himself. "Since you'll be staying for the foreseeable future, I thought we might continue my lessons."

Branson quirked an eyebrow – not the reply he'd been expecting – and recovered in time to say, "You're already more than a capable driver, m'lady."

"I wasn't talking about _driving_," she clarified with a pointed look, and then with her gaze drew his own to the complicated machinery of the engine block. Branson balked at her silent allusion. Thin ice or no, _that_ was something he could never countenance.

"His Lordship thought it best that my instruction be restricted to driving," he parried. Edith laughed.

"Yes, I remember. But you see, now I have a certain…. leverage over matters, wouldn't you agree?" She wanted to laugh again at his aghast features, but maintained her aura of wide-eyed innocence.

"Are…. are you _blackmailing_ me, m'lady?"

"Of course not! What a horrid thing to presume!" She flashed a sweet smile. "All I mean is that in exchange for my silence, you'll teach me everything I want to know about this engine," she finished, reaching over the greasy innards to give a few emphatic taps.

There was nothing he could do. He had no leverage of his own, and he felt the icy cords of defeat strangle at his heart as they discussed the wheres and hows of her future lessons. She left him with a head hung low, but he smiled, encouraged, when two steps out the door she called over her shoulder, suggesting that, "Perhaps Sybil can join us? I'm sure she's quite fond of this place!"

…

Branson knew it was only a matter of time before the summons came. Carson's warped voice scratched through the receiver of the telephone.

"Lady Mary requests you take her into Ripon after lunch."

The garage felt several degrees cooler as Branson hung up the phone, and he settled heavily onto a bench to await the reckoning. Lunchtime passed rather too swiftly, and very soon Branson found himself shrugging on his coat with mild trepidation. It wasn't that he was _afraid_ of Lady Mary, certainly not. He'd stood his ground once against those cold, accusatory eyes and he'd do it again if it meant being happy with Sybil. But still…

_Those eyebrows!_

The start of their journey lapsed in strained silence. Not a flicker of movement on her face betrayed even the slightest of annoyance, let alone anger. She was calm, serene, and he knew he would simply have to wait silently by till his lady chose to speak.

_Story of my life!_

They were three miles from their destination when she made her advance.

"Out of consideration for Sybil," she started, her acidic, biting tone at odds with the placidity of her features, "I've never confronted you about your pursuit of her. But of course all that must change. I'm warning you now: I won't give you away, but I _will_ do everything in power to persuade her to see reason and send you packing herself." She focused her gaze directly on the mirror reflecting his ever-paling face. "You may think you have her won over, but you're not the only one with influence in her life."

He said nothing. Mary gave a disgruntled sigh.

"I don't want you to misunderstand me, Branson. I don't _hate_ you" – _well, not much_ – "but I love my sister and I will do everything in my power to convince her not to throw her life away!"

Some unknown aspect of her speech must have awakened something within him, for he seemed to compose himself, his eyes in the mirror catching on fire.

"Of course you will," he replied. "And I will do everything in my power to convince her not to do the same, _m'lady_."

His eyes were still burning, bright and hot. They called to her, or rather recalled – something from her memory, something once spoken about this man she barely knew.

_Frightfully full of himself._

Well, she mused, Sybil had been right on that score. She hadn't quite liked the familiarity with which Sybil had denounced her suitor with the epithet, and she liked even less to see it on display. Had he always had such an impertinent set in his eyes? How had she never noticed it before?

Mary turned her neck to peer out the window – Ripon was only seconds away –and gave another small sigh. Despite her resolve that relations between her dearest sister and the chauffeur would be severed completely, Mary had a sickening premonition that she would be staring at that smug face over tea before yet.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: First Kiss<em>

**Edith - Or is This Just Fantasy?**

Fantasy always has a way of informing one's opinions, and even more so for young Ladies who weren't allowed to have any. But even an embargo on free thinking can hardly contain the roving nature of the mind's eye. There were plenty of other sources – books, magazines, whispered gossip when the governess wasn't looking – that Lady Edith Crawley could turn to, and by her mid-twenties, and with no experience under her belt, she could detail with precision her opinion on the most important matters in life: What a prince charming ought to be like, what entailed a perfect first kiss. All were neatly catalogued away as she waited for the day when reality would finally reach the lofty ambition of imagination.

At last it happened one night, quite by chance, and replicated exactly as she had envisioned. There was starlight and firelight; tender words and withheld passions that overflowed to embrace. Edith closed her eyes when his lips pressed against hers, and felt that her first kiss was everything it truly ought to be – except…

Except for the gold band glimmering on his left hand, encasing that crucial finger; and a set of jealous eyes that pierced like lightning through the dark.

She didn't really mind, of course, not until the next morning when a few clipped lines dispatched away her services and self-worth. She flushed and floundered, fumbling over an explanation to an unobservant family, excusing herself to make her way upstairs with a nasty glint in her eye. Her opinion on first kisses hadn't changed, but the section on prince charmings would definitely need revision.

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil – Maternity Wear<strong>

They had purchased the full-length mirror around Christmas, entirely for her benefit ("I don't really use a mirror!" had been one of his first shocking disclosures of their married life), and just in time for her waistline to begin stretching to unglamorous proportions. Sybil peered into the polished metal surface and watched her reflection stare glumly back, both images agreeing on a single thought:

_It looks hideous_!

"It looks very fetching on you!"

She was a bit astounded, for her husband _must_ be referring to the sack of cloth currently draped over her body, the one that the shopkeeper had rather liberally labeled as a "maternity frock". Even more odd was that she could see he meant every word, not that he ever had any genius for artifice, but could he truly think she looked becoming in this shapeless square of puce cloth?

Sybil suppressed a scoff. What did he know anyway? The man could barely dress himself, such as it was, and it was only two days ago that she had stopped him from putting on a pair of mismatched socks.

"Thank you, darling," she ground out. He kissed her cheek and left for work, leaving a muttering wife in his wake.

It wasn't long before she decided. "Something must be done!" she informed her reflection, for no amount of changing times, hard work, and idealism could take the fashion sense out of a girl who'd grown up shopping for new frocks twice a week.

…

She had what they jokingly referred to as "pin money", though really it was just a tiny allowance that she could use to buy personal frivolities. No pearl necklaces or sapphire pins, to be sure, but buttons, ribbons, and colorful spools of thread were all well within the budget.

Her daily trip to the market included a few extra stops that morning, and when she arrived home dinner was duly put off so she could set to work immediately. It didn't take long till she was satisfied – say what you will about Ladies of leisure, but they knew their way around a needle and thread – and by the time Branson arrived home she was absorbed in admiring her altered image, doing small twirls in her newly trimmed garment in front of the the mirror.

"What do you think?" she asked excitedly when he waltzed into the bedroom, unlacing his tie. Branson looked confused.

"Isn't that just the same dress from this morning?"

Sybil paid no mind, and continued her preening. She knew she looked fabulous, fabulous _and_ pregnant, and what did he know anyway?

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: funeral<em>

**Isobel – Useful**

_You must be useful. You can not be yourself if you are not useful._

She makes arrangements with the parlor on Monday, selects a practical casket and hands over the fine suit he only wore when she requested it specifically. Tuesday is devoted to disseminating the particulars to his wide circle of acquaintance: time, location, and whether or not they would be serving luncheon at the wake. Wednesday is more hectic – menus must be finalized and the house readied for the influx of bodies – and by Thursday the florist has made their delivery and she is up till the small hours ensuring the lilies are arranged just so. Friday she reserves for the most difficult task. To Matthew's great annoyance she sets him on her knee as if he were a child of five instead of eight, though he is later grateful for the nearness when she explains in low tones why father is gone, why tomorrow he will go into the earth, never to return to them. When Saturday comes all is sorted and smooth, every detail well-oiled. One event glides into the next without a single hitch or snare, and she is gliding as well, through the speeches, the handshakes, the doleful looks of condolence that come and go around her, the one placid face amidst the sea of sorrow.

It is not until Sunday that she cries.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt – houseguests<em>

**Kemal, Lavinia, William - Let's Give Them Something to Talk About**

He hovered mere inches over the guests streaming through the large entryway, his flawless beauty unmitigated even by the devious curl of his lip.

"Fresh meat!" he gleefully cried.

Sitting on the chandelier, Lavinia cast him a withering look.

"Really, Kemal. You should leave them alone. After all, weren't we both once house guests at Downton? Leave them be to have a nice visit without your pranks."

"And what would constitute a 'nice visit', exactly?" He scoffed. "You English…. all you ever do is talk, talk, talk! Talk in the parlor, talk over tea, talk while dining, talk while walking. And it's always the same tedious subjects over and over again. I say…. let's give them something _new_ to talk about!"

Her veneer of disapproval was waning, and he pressed on with a point he knew would be irresistible to her:

"And besides, even you must admit that lately things have been rather…boring for us."

Lavinia bit her lip - she could not argue. The long-term residents at Downton were growing alarming used to the ethereal shenanigans that had lately pervaded its hallowed halls. Daisy no longer screeched when the loaf pans banged of their own accord, Carson only grumbled in annoyance when the silver candelabra began glowing sans the benefit of candles, and Lady Mary's eyebrows, which were wont to dance at even the slightest provocation, could not be bothered to so much as twitch when the soup tureen floated from one side board to another.

"I suppose it would be rather fun to haunt those less used to our antics."

"That's the spirit!" he said, and with a cheeky wink added, "pun intended."

He floated away, while Lavinia swept through the walls, locating the room she was sure Lucinda Skelton would soon be settling into, wondering along the way whether that poor lady would be more averse to snakes or rodents.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt – New Beginnings<em>

**Ethel - Stepping Stones**

Her dreams lived on the horizon, a grand spire that lifted to heights unseen and unknown. She had the looks, she had the talent, but in between Ethel Parks and ultimate achievement there rested an innumerable number of stepping stones that only seemed to grow larger with each step taken. A post in a small house in the country. A post in a big house in the country. A pound saved here, one there.

What she needed was opportunity, and she heard it knocking in the form of a smart uniform and a handsome smile that wasn't at all averse to flashing her way.

Anna called her foolish. Mrs. Hughes all but burned her alive with the fire licking behind her stern reprimands. But _they_ could not see the way he looked at her, or hear the lovelorn urgings that dripped from his mouth pressed close against her ear.

A real gentleman, he was, and he would make her a real lady, he promised. Goodbye waiting, so long hard work and hands rubbed raw from scrubbing floors that would just need scrubbing the next day. Her dreams were looking closer everyday, and a thousand stepping stones could be transcended in a single bound, in this single leap of faith – and then there she'd be, standing tall and proud in the tower of stardom with marquees blinking her name.

Major Charlie Bryant offered her the world on a platter. A new beginning, that's what he called it, and wouldn't she be willing to prove her love for him first?

Of course she would.

As Ethel slipped out of her room, Anna softly snoring and none the wiser, she was certain of only one thing:

After this night, her life would never be the same.

* * *

><p><strong>John Bates - Regrets<strong>

They are lying side by side under early morning light when she asks him:

"What do you regret most of all?"

He could fill the sea with his answers. The drinking. The fighting. Vera. They gather around him like stones, piled high upon each other like so many crude alters, waiting for him to offer up some kind of atonement. He once thought that the sacrifice of love, the companionship of the woman now beside him would be enough for a proper penance.

He carefully places his hand over her brow, and traces the side of her face garlanded with straw-gold hair. At his touch the regrets seem to reform themselves, from mountains of cast stones screaming for restitution to a smooth stone bridge, where his Anna waits there smiling at the other side, and he realizes:

"For the life that has led me to you, I regret nothing at all."

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: set in the kitchen<em>

**Mrs. Patmore – Legacy**

She'd never been blessed with a child of her own.

Of course, she'd never even wanted a child, and so her barren state was really the truest blessing of all. After Nelly had died she had sworn to become a cook and fulfill the dream that was denied her eldest sister, and with Gracie shooting out babes faster than a firing squad she figured the production of the next generation of Patmores had been amply covered without her assistance.

"_Have you thickened the sauce for the chicken yet, Daisy?"_

"_Yes, Mrs. Patmore!"_

But in moments like these, she could almost feel herself a mother.

"_And the whipped cream for the apple pudding?"_

"_Almost finished, Mrs. Patmore!"_

Molding and shaping lumps of raw, unformed material into brilliant masterpieces, true works of art in their own right.

"_Please tell me you haven't forgotten about the chopped garnish to go over the soup?"_

"_Course not, Mrs. Patmore, I've got it right here!"_

Beryl gave a sigh as William and Thomas came to collect the trays of expertly prepared dishes, feeling that familiar clench in her heart as the footman carried her babies – her legacy – up the stairs to be devoured without thought or comment.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Patmore! Everything was lovely and I'm sure they'll all be complimenting you on another fine meal!"

Beryl's eyes shifted from the seamless, steady backs of the footman to the eager voice at her side. It was odd, to feel the years slip away and the only thing to show for it half-emptied plates and the hollow applause of diners accustomed to gourmet suppers on a nightly basis. But Daisy's toothy grin, wide and sincere, accomplished at having helped prepare such a lavish meal, endowed Beryl with a peaceful contentment concerning her small, meager place in the world.

Even without a child of her own, even with the work of her hands forgotten and dismissed by the time the port came round, perhaps she was leaving behind a legacy after all.

* * *

><p><em>Prompt: bonds<em>

**Mary - Prisoner**

He had the power to destroy her, and she would never forget it.

Most would find her situation lamentable, but in the back of her mind she blames herself, naturally. If she had not given in to Kemal, or if she could somehow extricate the exposure of her scandal with utter destruction in her own conscience and mind, then she might not have found herself caged within the ruin of her own making.

Yet there may just be an escape, she thinks as she looks over Lavinia's freshly dug grave. Matthew's haggard eyes seem to bore into her very depths, holding her captive with bonds more powerful than the strongest steel, tying her down with cords of sharp wire.

"_Let us accept that this is the end."_

The walls of her cell close in. Sir Richard comes to claim her, to rescue her, and she feels his steely grasp as a welcome reprieve from the relentless tyranny of Matthew's gaze.

They walk onwards and away, his clench growing tighter, and it is then that Mary realizes she can never escape her bonds. She will always be a prisoner of a sort, one way or another.

* * *

><p><strong>Thomas – Chameleon<strong>

In his father's house he was the avid apprentice – _You put the gear in backwards, Tom! Now pull it out and do it over!_

He hated clocks. And he hated his father even more.

…

Out on the streets he was the tiny thief – _Watch that mark careful, Tommy. You'll only get one chance and if you come away with nothing it's a sure thrashing._

He didn't mind the stealing. But he could never stomach handing his earnings over to someone else.

…

In the children's home he was the subdued student – _Read that portion again, Mr. Barrow, this time without affectation. They'll be a caning for you if you do otherwise._

He liked learning. But the way the schoolmaster stared at him made his insides churn.

…

At Downton Abbey he was the flawless footman – _Thank you, Thomas, that will be all. Could you inform Anna and O'Brien we're all ready to go up?_

He wanted to be a valet. But either way he'd be taking orders from someone else.

…

"Got a light, O'Brien?"

She extended the match and they both began to converse – _Breath in. Breathe out._ _Inhale. Exhale._

She knew it all – his demons, his strengths, what little virtues he retained from babehood – and still she stood beside him. The world had chewed them up and spit them both out, made them put on mask after mask per another's bidding.

But there were no masks here.

With her he was his true self.

* * *

><p><em>I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading :)<em>


	6. Chapter 6

****_Beware: These drabbles contain spoilers for series 3.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>SybilBranson - devotion**

The word was uttered as a shot in the dark:

"Strawberries!"

No one answered, and it took several confused moments for her to realize it was because no one was actually awake to hear her demand. She quickly remedied the oversight with two swift and intentionally painful kicks to the left.

"Wha –?" came the groggy response.

"I need strawberries."

Branson shook his head. "We don't have any."

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. _Your baby_ –" she enunciated sharply enough to make him wince, "– needs strawberries!" He sighed.

"Sybil, how do you expect me to find strawberries at 2 in the morning? In _January_?"

Sybil seemed to soften at his perfectly acceptable excuse. Her mouth eased and her gaze grew faraway and dreamy. She appeared calm – far too calm for having just been denied her way.

"What are you doing?" he asked with undeniable and mounting dread.

"Oh, nothing." She smiled sweetly. "I was just recalling a memory. A very fond one, in fact. I was under an archway in York, you see, ready to begin the greatest adventure of my life. A man was there, and he was speaking to me so passionately about all the things I both hoped and feared, something about…. devoting every waking minute to my happiness."

Her cloying smile never once slackened, even as her shrewd eyes shifted a millimeter to the left to gauge his response.

"All right. You win," he said with a resigned sigh, and proceeded to clamber out of bed, groping through the dark to throw on what would no doubt be a horribly mismatched outfit. But just before slipping through the door, he turned and flashed her that smile that always made her heart jump just a bit.

"Although to be fair, I _was_ sleeping."

* * *

><p><strong>MM wedding - Flower Girls**

_Flower girls? I haven't given it much thought. Why do you ask?_

_O'Brien tells me that she has quite a few nieces living around the village. _

_How lovely! It would be a wonderful gesture to include some of the village in the ceremony, wouldn't you agree, Matthew?_

_I certainly wouldn't mind. But it's Mary's big day. I think the decision should come from her._

Lily gasped. She'd never been nearer than the front gates of the great house, and here she was, up the high steps that led to the entrance, through the large doors, and inside where the ceiling seemed to stretch all the way to heaven. She suddenly grew very nervous as Auntie Sarah took her by the hand and led her down a hallway. She shouldn't like to knock over something a thousand years old and be put in prison for it.

And everything was so grand and lovely. Even the carpet she was standing on! Here she was walking all over something that was nicer than her Sunday best, being told to do this or that, when all she wanted to do was gobble up every little detail with her eyes.

Lily felt a hand at her shoulder. "Miss Peters and some of the maids will do your hair. Come on, now."

"Not you, Auntie Sarah?" Lily pouted.

"I've got her Ladyship to see to, as you know. You'll be in good hands."

Auntie O'Brien was very firm, but always kind. She led Lily and her cousins into a large room. Before slipping in, Lily saw out of the corner of her eye a tall figure giving her a little smile. She was glad to have Cousin Alfie so near, and she sent him a wave.

The maids curled their hair with irons. Lily was afraid to get burned, but thought she was very brave about it. Not a single complaint, not like Clara who cried through the whole thing until Mrs. Hughes came in to give them all a bit of tea and biscuits.

"And what do you think of the dress?" Mrs. Hughes asked. Lily wiped some crumbs with the back of her hand. What an odd question! What else could she think of it, when it was pink and pretty and soft as a butterfly's wings. Not that she knew what a butterfly's wings _really_ felt like, but she could imagine. That's what she always did, imagined, and today was like all her pretend worlds had come to life.

They slipped on the pink silk, pulled on their stockings, and with a final once over the girls were led back outside by Mrs. Hughes, to the waiting motorcar, and the wedding the whole village would be talking about for months to come.

* * *

><p><strong>O'Brien and Cora - Fifty Strokes<strong>

Sarah had it down to a science. Fifty strokes before bed, with the pearl inlaid brush that Cora had bought as a wedding gift to herself, would leave her Ladyship's hair soft and silky, ready for the arduous undertaking of slumber. The precise ritual had first commenced sometime during the war, when Cora had declared she had settled on the perfect length for her hair. Sarah had experimented with numbers – there were many variables to take into account, after all – but fifty had been the number she had settled on, knew in her gut was the perfect amount, as only a Lady's maid can.

_One._

"What a day," Cora practically moaned. Two delicate shoulders slumped in the chair before the vanity. "It was lovely to see Sybil again, but I can't remember the last time I've been so exhausted."

"Was it a very trying dinner, my lady?"

Cora sighed. "Cousin Isobel _insisted_ on asking question after question about Ireland." She flashed a half a smirk into the mirror. "I'll leave the rest up to your imagination."

Sarah suppressed a smiled. "I'm sure you were able to manage it."

Cora laughed. "I asked him about Irish gardens, of all things. He sat there without a word for an entire minute before saying that he wasn't quite sure, but the ones he'd seen were lovely."

_Thirteen._

"And how is Alfred getting on?"

"Well, I think, as hard workers always do." A few strokes went by in silence. "I suppose you saw what happened at his first dinner…"

Cora shushed her. "Not to worry, O'Brien. Everyone makes mistakes at first. Although I suppose he got quite a scolding from Carson after they went down."

Sarah remained silent for a time. "He's a tough lad; he can handle it. And he truly does want to learn, my lady, to be a proper footman."

"I wouldn't ever doubt your recommendation, O'Brien. And I'll speak to Carson –"

"Please, my lady, don't put yourself out. Not after all you've done to get him the post."

"As I was saying: I'll talk to Carson; let him know not to be too harsh."

The brush stopped mid-stroke.

"Thank you, my lady."

_Twenty-eight_

"Your mother will be arriving soon, my lady?"

"A day before the wedding." Cora sighed. "At times I miss her terribly. But then I remember how it was the last time she came. I wouldn't want another World War on our hands, not after we've already survived one."

"Mrs. Levinson does like to rattle the cages when she comes to Downton."

"She does," Cora's tone was somewhat exasperated, but her smile spoke of fondness and anticipation. "At times….I've lived in England for so long that sometimes I feel as though I've forgotten who I am. But then she shows up and I'm perfectly reminded again."

_Forty-nine._

Sarah laid the brush down onto the vanity and began the meticulous process of winding her Ladyship's hair into a loose braid. She had just separated the hair into three long, glowing strands when she was bade to stop.

"O'Brien?" Cora said bemusedly, the discarded brush in hand. "I believe you've forgotten one."

Sarah reached down to claim the offered object. "Have I, my lady?" she asked lightly.

"Yes. Yes, you have." Cora said nothing else, but simply turned back around.

Sarah placed the bristles at her Ladyship's crown and slowly shifted them downwards. Fifty strokes – not one more and not one less – a routine that had lasted through war and peace, and that neither would ever relinquish.

* * *

><p><strong>Edith and O'Brien – Snubbed<strong>

Edith charged up the stairs, swung open her bedroom door, and flopped onto her bed.

_Snubbed._

It wasn't a new sensation for her, that smoldering bitterness that never burned anyone but herself, and which was kept hot and alive by the fanning bellows, the searing quips of her sister and steady negligence of her parents.

Matthew Crawley, for all his warm smiles and vague promises of future church visits, was not interested in her, had never been interested her. Sir Anthony Strallan, "that booby," needed only thirty seconds of concerted effort, a mere sprinkling of Mary's beguiling charms to dispatch Edith's genuine interest with little more than a side thought. John Drake, the only man to ever make her feel truly beautiful, had been satisfied with one single, sloppy kiss before disappearing into her memory with nothing but a short and curtly worded letter left behind as a token of his affection.

A knock sounded at the door, and Edith groaned.

"Yes?" she called after dragging herself up and plastering a neutral expression on her face.

"Her Ladyship is asking for you, milady," O'Brien said as she entered.

Edith sighed. "What does Mama want?"

"I'm not sure, milady. You'd best ask her yourself." O'Brien dismissed herself after Lady Edith's single nod and made for the door.

A voice stopped her. "Do you have brothers and sisters, O'Brien?"

Internally O'Brien was somewhat taken aback. Whether it was because Lady Edith had asked the question in the first place or because after nearly a decade the girl still didn't know one jot about her, she couldn't rightly say.

She turned around and straightened up. "Quite a few, milady. Four brothers and two sisters."

"And are you one of the older or one of the younger?"

"I'm the middle child, milady."

"Right in the middle?" Lady Edith's eyes were eager. They made Sarah uncomfortable.

"Yes, milady."

"I see. It must have been hard, with so many. But then you've turned out all right, haven't you?"

"I suppose I have, milady."

Lady Edith's face was expectant. The likes of Anna might have rattled on, expanded on all the specifics that their lot occasionally found a passing interest in; but Sarah left her reply as it stood. She didn't want to get into all the sordid details of her family's complicated and tangled alliances, of which Sarah seemed always at the center.

It was another minute of silence before Edith took the hint. "Thank you, O'Brien. I'll go see Mama." She sank dejectedly back down into the mattress. It didn't take personal experience, of which Sarah had plenty, to see what was happening, the way Lady Edith was floundering, grasping for any life preserver to keep her from sinking into the sea of obscurity.

Maybe a little word or two, just to carry her though the day.

"It does get better, milady," O'Brien said softly, in a voice usually reserved for her Ladyship. "As you get older, I mean."

Edith rose with a desperate smile. "Does it really?"

"Yes. I think it does."

"Thank you, O'Brien."

O'Brien nodded. She left the room, walking down the hall before slipping through the servants' door. Her footsteps echoed in the narrow staircase – hollow and empty, and not very different from the encouragement she'd just bequeathed in her strange flight of sympathy. Sarah thought briefly of her life, of the years that tumbled from childhood to adulthood, each one only multiplying her troubles, as they often did for everyone. She didn't feel quite right in lying to the poor girl, but coddling them was part of her job description.

Once alone, Edith didn't bother ringing for Anna's help as she tidied up her hair. She would leave her room; she would go see her Mama. And things would get better, just as O'Brien had said. Just a childish indulgence, that's all her silly bad mood was. She'll forget all about John Drake by next week, for there's a war on, after wall, and there are far worse things than getting snubbed by a fellow.

* * *

><p><strong>ReedAlfred - Goodbyes**

_This evening has made me homesick for America. It's time to go._

He runs into her on a search for Thomas; his Lordship had just lost a button and the valet was nowhere to be found. She's coming out of the guest room with an arm full of neatly stacked coats and shawls that looks ready to topple her small frame.

"Mrs. Levinson is leaving?" he asks. He'd already heard the scuttlebutt downstairs, but wanted confirmation.

"Tomorrow." She smiles. "I think you'll miss me."

"You think right." He unburdens her arms and tucks the whole pile easily under one arm, and she thanks him lazily with a slight nod. "And will you miss….Downton Abbey?" he asks.

One of those sharp elbows raises in a shrug. "I might. Depends on how my last day goes."

He grins. "We'll have to make sure it's memorable."

"We will won't we. You know Alfred," she says, sliding backwards towards the guest bedroom door, dark eyes and silken voice drawing him after her like a tether, "I've always loved goodbyes."

They disappear inside.

.

.

.

The crack in the baize door slips shut. Daisy wanders back down to the kitchens, confused, and quietly seething.

* * *

><p><strong>Cora - Too Little, Too Late<strong>

Robert rose as she entered the room.

"How is she?" he asked. His wife, the indomitable pillar of the family, was visibly shaking.

She toppled into a chair.

"How do you think?"

Robert shook his head. "I never thought it might come to this."

"Of course you wouldn't! Why would anybody?" Her breath was rapid. "They looked so happy together, so in love. My poor darling." She looked up to him pleadingly, eyes spouting. "I can't forgive him. I won't – not ever! What could have _possibly_ gotten in to him?"

Robert shifted. He cleared his throat, all emotion apparently pent up in that peculiarly English Male way, Cora decided. "Never mind that. What's done is done. All we can do now is try and support Edith during this terrible trial."

Cora dabbed her eyes. "Carson, I'm going back upstairs. Please let O'Brien know."

Alone in her room, Cora sat down on the bed, and pulled apart her warring emotions. Edith's strength, the very core of her fortitude, was being tested. Of that she firmly believed.

But so was hers – and not only her strength, but her very identity. Wife, mother, Countess – she had tried to balance all the plates without letting any crash down to the floor, but she had no illusions as to which one harbored a few cracks and chips.

Her daughter's face screamed rage for every person in the room; but she had let Cora stay. Married Mary and Pregnant Sybil were sights not to be borne, but she had let Cora embrace he, cried out for her – _Oh, Mama_! – and Cora had felt wretched.

O'Brien entered, cast one look at her mistress, and began silently tidying up. After so many years their communication lacked for nothing even when no words were exchanged.

At last Cora miserably confessed:

"I should have paid more attention to her."

"It's not your fault, milady," came the soothing reply. "Sir Anthony made his dreadful decision all on his own and there was nothing you could have done about it."

"No. I suppose there wasn't." Cora sniffed. "But there was plenty I could have done before she walked down that aisle. I'm not even sure why she wanted me there."

"She's your daughter, milady. Of course she wanted you there."

Cora shuddered. _Of course she wanted you there._ A mother's love is non-negotiable, but not a daughter's, and at that moment Cora felt very lucky, and very determined.

"I will try harder," Cora cried. "I will. I want her to be happy, so terribly happy." She gave another sob. "I just hope it isn't too late."

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil Branson – In Dublin**

Branson stared down at the piece of charcoal on his plate.

"What is this?" he asked neutrally, casually, in a vain hope not to offend.

Sybil's voice was tight. "What does it look like?"

"Fried…?" Two eyebrows narrowed. "Baked….?" Pink lips pursed. "A….pie?"

Sybil's pent up breath deflated as she sagged in her chair.

"It's fish. I bought it this morning." She crinkled her nose after taking a whiff of her creation. "I suppose it's a bit overdone."

"Nothing that a bit of sauce won't fix!" Tom said brightly. He dumped a liberal portion out of the jug that was a permanent fixture on their table (this being neither the first nor last time dinner needed salvaging) and passed it over.

Sybil sighed, and adorned her own portion with the white, creamy savior. She crunched through her bite and swallowed down with a harrowing expression, but was silently pleased when she saw her husband do the same, albeit with nothing but a content smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em>Thank you for reading :)<em>


	7. Chapter 7

_This is the last chapter of drabbles that I will be posting. These drabbles are a bit special to me because they were the first things I attempted when I started writing fanfic, and here I am hundreds of thousands of words later :). So thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed this story. I really enjoyed writing each and everyone of them and exploring all the different characters. But my writing trends of late have lead me to believe that I won't be writing drabbles anymore, and so I've decided to close this story._

_This one is mostly Sybil/Branson stuff, some it AU, but I believe there is an Edith one somewhere in there. I also tacked on two drabbles that I've already published as a different story, but since I had nothing to add to it I've deleted it and combined it with this one._

* * *

><p><strong>Branson and Thomas - Alcohol<strong>

Thomas was restless. And so were his feet. Mrs Patmore, usually the last to go up, had long blown out the last of the lamps as Thomas paced for the third time around the circumference of the house. His mind was taking its time adjusting to the familiarity of his old life, free from the war-zone accoutrements that had pervaded his new one.

He eventually grew tired of the circular rut his feet were forming, and set out for the distance. There was a light on out aways, out in the yard - a single lamp still burning in the garage - and Thomas drew towards it like a moth lost in a darkened house. The doors ajar, when Thomas came around to look inside he saw the chauffeur was there reading one of his God-awful papers, and having himself a bit of nightcap.

Branson looked up rather eagerly, Thomas thought, but resumed a neutral expression once his eyes ascertained it was only the old first footman.

"Thomas? Do you have a message for me?" he asked.

"No. Just out for walk."

"In the middle of the night?"

"What's it to you?"

Branson shrugged. "Nothing," he said, and then raised his glass towards him. "Do you drink?"

Thomas turned up his nose. "Not that."

"Suit yourself." Branson turned back to his paper as Thomas wandered inside.

"So you just sit out here all day long by yourself?"

"I suppose. Except when one of the family needs the car, of course."

Thomas frowned. The idea unnerved him, dawdling in solitude hour by hour with only the intoxicating smell of petrol to console him. As much as Thomas hated people, he knew he'd go mad if he wasn't constantly surrounded by them. "Doesn't it get lonely?" he asked, prodded by a sudden spur of sympathy.

Branson smiled. "Not really," he answered with a peculiar bent in his tone. "But I don't mind company all the same."

Thomas took the invitation and settled himself down onto a workbench. "Well then. Maybe I will have that drink after all."

* * *

><p><strong>Edith and Mrs. Patmore - A Different Life<strong>

"_Can I get anything for you?"_

"_A different life."_

"I think that's everything." Anna turned to where her mistress was staring out of the window. "Are you looking forward to London, milady?"

"You mean to being chaperoned by my Aunt Rosamund to party after party filled with nothing but old spinsters?" She chuckled. "No, not particularly."

"It might not be so bad. You've always enjoyed yourself there before."

"Perhaps when I was a young girl and not every man I knew was dead." Anna lowered her head, and Edith sighed. "I'm sorry, Anna. I shouldn't be snappish, not after all the trouble you've gone through to get me packed up so quickly."

"It's no trouble at all, milady. And don't be sorry. You never need to be sorry for that." She closed the trunk. "I'll be going down then, unless you need anything else?"

"No, I should be all right. Thank you, Anna."

Anna left, and Edith lay down on the bed. They were shuttling her away, she had decided. Packing her off to London, hoping the distraction of honking cars and a few boring card parties would allay her mind of the humiliation.

And that's what she was – after the devastation and heartbreak – there was no denying the scorch of being completely and utterly humiliated. Of course no one was _laughing_ at her, at least not this time. No, it was ten times worse than mere laughter, so infinitely less bearable to be the object of pity than the butt of a joke.

Sybil had gone back to Dublin with tears in her eyes and a belly full of expectant joy. Mary and Matthew, all money troubles resolved, resettled into their disgusting pattern of happiness. The whole household tiptoed around the middle daughter, heaping ashes upon her downcast head with their piteous looks and quiet murmurings.

Her stomach grumbled, a natural side effect of her paltry consumption these past few days. She considered ringing for Anna, but didn't want to bother her again, not now that she was supposed to be wholly devoted to Mary. Carson or the new footman would do, she thought, but almost on a whim, overcome with a feeling of restlessness, she bucked up, and sought her recourse personally by venturing down to the kitchens.

It had been ages since she had gone down into the bowels of the house. At the bottom step she paused and peeked around the corner. She heard the upbeat chatter, saw the shadows bustling about, and instinctually knew that she did not belong there. She turned around to creep back up the steps when a voice stopped her.

"My Lady? Is there something you need?" Mrs. Patmore's stocky form asked.

Edith slowly turned back around and smiled.

"Not really, I just…. I was a bit hungry…"

"And you'd like something to eat?"

"Yes. If it's not too much trouble, that is."

"No trouble at all, milady. And can I say I'm quite happy to see you've got your appetite up again."

The cook led her to the hall and pulled out a chair. Edith sat down in her usual timid fashion, and in a few short seconds, much faster than Edith could have anticipated, an array was spread before her: pies and cheeses and some cold meats. She began nibbling, asking around a small mouthful:

"Whatever happened to the wedding food? I don't think I saw one scrap of it, after…."

Mrs. Patmore cleared her throat. "We ate it, my lady. And what was left was donated."

"I see." Edith swallowed, and took another bite. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that trouble for nothing."

"It was no trouble at all, my lady."

Edith smiled tightly.

_It never is any trouble, is it? Not for any of you._

"Yes, but to think of all that work, and all for nothing," Edith persisted.

"Not quite for nothing, my lady. The poor in the village were very appreciative."

"Well I'm glad some good has come of it." The conversation lulled, and that familiar awkwardness began to creep in. "If it was anything like the food at Mary's wedding I'm sure it was wonderful," Edith said with a forced brightness.

Mrs. Patmore looked at her sadly. "Thank you, milady. I do try."

Edith finished the rest of her snack in silence, feeling somewhat abashed by the queer looks from the passing servants, and the obviously busy cook who was quite clearly itching to get away and attend to her duties, yet who still sat stoically beside her.

Edith rose – "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore. I feel quite refreshed" – and quickly headed back to the stairs.

But she didn't go back upstairs, not immediately. Edith loitered at that bottom step, and watched the kitchen staff about their business. Mostly she examined that short, stout figure who roared about with a shock of hair that was a frighteningly familiar shade of strawberry, taking notes on the scars that graced her arms, the scruffiness of her voice and demeanor – a countenance that was strangely appealing. Mrs. Patmore was yelling up a storm, every command quickly and thoroughly obeyed, at one moment waving her arms wildly about, the next slicing up vegetables with a precision that astonished her. Her hands were calloused and charred, free of any jewelry, unhindered by the band of gold that would have led to a different life than head cook in an Earl's household.

Edith smiled.

She wanted so desperately to have a different life – a life like Mary's a life like Sybil's – but perhaps that was not her fate. Perhaps she'd instead she'd grow bold and scruffy, and lead a much more different life than she had ever dreamed.

She raced back upstairs, for the first time excited about being packed off to London.

* * *

><p><strong>Branson and Sybbie – like father like daughter<strong>

She was a striking replica of her mother in looks, but in everything else an undeniable Branson: both elbows perched on the table, one hand immersed in a tangle of curls as it supported her lolling head, the other picking at the untouched pile of peas on her dinner plate.

"Have you recently forgotten the use of a fork?" he asked after swallowing.

Sybbie delicately held one small, green sphere between her fingers, and flicked it into his face.

"It'll save you the trouble of washing one extra," she said, smiling away his chagrin.

He was smiling too by the time he was finished wiping his face, and before remembering to school his features back into the veneer of Responsible Parent.

"I got another letter today," he said, and very near severely.

Sybbie blew out a long breath of air. "And what did _she_ have to to tell you?"

"Your _headmistress_," he said sternly, "tells me you've missed the last two days of school." He paused for effect. "Is it true?"

She sat suddenly upright. "I would never lie!" she said forcefully, and then fell silent.

Branson sighed. "I admire your spirit, Sybbie, but eventually you'll have to learn to respect authority."

"You mean like you?"

He tried a different tack. "You'll need to finish school if you want to get anywhere, and that means following along with their rules."

"I suppose that might be true, if I didn't have such rich relatives."

"You can't go crawling to your Aunt Mary whenever you want something."

"Aunt Mary?" Sybbie laughed. "It's Uncle Matthew that got me that tube of lipstick for my birthday even after you said no." Her bright, red lips puckered for emphasis, before opening up wide, shrieking as a pile of peas found its way to the top of her head.

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil and Branson – Holiday (AU)<strong>

"What about China?"

Her voice rang with enthusiasm with the suggestion, however preposterous, and Branson couldn't bring himself to let that one go. His humoring only went so far.

"We're not going to China," he said with finality and a frown-inducing scoff.

"Why not?**" **Sybil side-stepped the children littering the floor as she headed for the stove. "Imagine it: The Great Wall, The Forbidden City. The food will no doubt be fantastic and that's to say nothing of the tea." She gave the pot a stir. "And Mrs. Lee speaks so fondly of it!"

"Anyone would about their homeland," he replied almost wistfully. He could sympathize with their neighbors, an ocean away from everything they were born and raised to know, to understand. This land of opportunity afforded the Bransons much: freedom from the rigidity of both their birthrights, an escape from the wagging tongues that followed them everywhere. Now in place of the comments spoken behind veiled mouths were open, puzzled smiles and an innocent, "Earl of Grantham? What's an Earl of Grantham?"

Sybil would always laugh - "Oh, just a type of tea! We English love our tea!" – and the Bransons and their unique marriage would be accepted without further fuss or ado.

And so he couldn't regret coming here. The upbeat tempo of San Francisco thrummed through their veins - the salt-smell of the bay, the flood of warring accents; chocolate, trolleys, and pizza. It was where they belonged, a place their children could grow without ever feeling ashamed.

The children were rustled up and placed in their proper pecking order at the table. Sybil set the stew down as the family dug in. Branson savored a bite - it was very nearly a small taste of the past; but these were no prairie lands and it was impossible to get the right cuts of lamb.

"Alright then, not China." Sybil smiled her secret smile that never failed to excite and scare him. "What do you think about…. Europe?"

"Europe?" he repeated. Underground art galleries; streets made up of water. "The Continent?" he asked again without much warmth.

"If you like. But I was thinking of someplace a bit greener, and much more_…._ wet."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. "Ireland?" he asked. "You want to use your grandmother's money to visit Ireland?"

"Well, we'd stop at Downton on they way, naturally. But I must admit I've missed the constant rainstorms and the way I could never understand a word out of anyone."

Branson laughed. It seemed a good decade with him had taught her a bit of sarcasm. Outside the ocean mists of the Pacific were beginning their nightly stroll and horns blared loud, scattering the gulls as they circled the bay - a small taste of the past, but not quite close enough to truly feel like home.

_Home._

"I think Ireland would be grand."

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil and Branson – Snow (AU)<strong>

Little feet pitter; raindrops patter. Wind shakes the window panes till they rattle like cages, and Sybil thinks they may as well be considered a family held hostage for all these loud complaints of being trapped.

"Just a few minutes outside, Mama, and we promise not to get wet!"

The good nurse does not relent.

"Da?"

He is the indulgent one, yes, but he knows better than to contradict. Three pairs of eyes stare miserably out the window to watch the earth grow soggy without them. At length the shoulders hovering over the sill begin to shiver, and a small voice grumbles about a draft.

A familiar look winds up on his face, for he is as wont to instruct as he is to indulge.

"It could be worse," Tom begins as the children groan in anticipation. "Back home we had ice falling from the sky, not water. And none of these electric heaters. Nothing but coal, and you lot wouldn't have lasted five minutes with all that smoke."

No words, only a row of rolling eyes in triplicate makes up the feeble protest before any further effusions are ably warded off.

"Perhaps it's more comfortable, but I do miss the snow!" Sybil interposes. The steam in her mug coils upward in a faint smile.

"That's because you never had to shovel any."

"It wasn't _only_ that, although I'm sure it improved upon the memories." She smiles fondly, distant recollections glazing her eyes. The children have abandoned their watch at the window. They sit at their Mama's feet, eager and rapt. "I'd wake up one morning to see every inch of the earth covered in white," she says in low, storybook tones. "Nanny would practically drown us in wool, and then Mary, Edith, and I would go outside – we had a tradition," she continues as their eyes light up. "Snowmen! We each built our very own every year, and then your Grandmamma and Grandpapa would judge whose was best."

"A contest?" an excited face squeaks.

Sybil smiles. "Yes, I suppose it was! A snowman-building contest. Mary always won, of course."

"Of course," Tom rejoins, the children nodding sagely. Bereft of the physical presence of their extended family, the children have had to rely on oral depictions, and their Aunt Mary has long since passed into legend.

She takes a sip. "I miss those days," she says longingly, a suggestion of pain. "I do so wish we could have snow for Christmas, even for a day. I'd even shovel it!" she ends loud enough for all to hear.

He goes to sleep thinking she is being strangely nostalgic, and the next afternoon after he herds the children indoors, they rush upon her with market bags and toothy grins.

They show off their purchases. Sybil looks confused.

"What are all these for?"

"It's to build our snowmen, Mama!"

"Ah." Sybil pops a marshmallow into her mouth. "I see. So we're to build proper snowmen out of these?"

"As proper as can be," Tom says, "only in miniature."

"And also edible?"

"Consider it a bonus. And you won't have to worry about freezing your hands off."

Sybil laughs. She hasn't worn mittens in years.

After diner they spend the evening concocting their creations. Sybil doesn't have the heart to choose one over the other and they are all declared winners, before impaling the poor creatures with a straightened wire and roasting them alive over the hearth. It's a cruel ending, but a necessary sacrifice to slake their holiday appetites.

The browned and melted remains are squished between two graham crackers, a thick slab of the city's finest chocolate wedged within. Sybil stuffs it whole into her mouth in a gooey, delicious mess.

She laughs, licking her lips and fingers. She never could have eaten like this at Downton. And though she'll still sigh over the slate grey sky that proffers nothing but sheets of water, she would never trade away that sky, or this life, or the lips that meet hers in a chocolaty kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>Sybil - And She Dances<strong>

Sybil dances in the schoolroom, to music pinched out from the harpsichord by her governess in the corner. Her governess is suitably strict, but not nearly as much as the dance master that directs her steps with calculated precision.

_Dancing should not be so cold_, she thinks. It should be like running through the meadows or chasing tadpoles by the pond – nonsense and freedom and moving like the wind in the reeds.

.

.

Sybil dances in the ballroom. The music is grand and austere, a battalion of instruments beat out their marching orders as directed by the conductor. Couples weave together like cords in a loom, mechanical cogs with not a single step out of place.

_Dancing should not be so coordinated_, she thinks. They all know the steps and it is all rather boring. They should bump and collide, laugh as they stumble on top of each other, as though playing a game where no one knows the rules.

.

.

Sybil dances at her wedding. A few cousins plunk or bang on patched up fiddles and drums. She skips and runs rather than glides and curtseys. And the steps are new and confusing; but she laughs because she's sure no one else knows what they are either.

_This is just what dancing ought to be like_, she thinks.

.

.

.

_There is a ghost in the kitchen. She hums a light and lofty melody, bright like sunshine on a rare, fair-weather day. She swings around like freedom and the wind, twirls into chairs and bumps into the cupboards, with a baby girl in her arms that giggles and chirps and delights in her first dancing lessons._

But the room is ordered and clean, quiet and cold, because there is no one dancing here, and there never will be.

* * *

><p><strong>Branson – Dreams<strong>

He does not seek out her face in the sky, or listen for her voice in the wind. But if he sees her visage in the morning haze, cloudy and undefined. Or if he hears her voice amidst the early bird's song, muted and unformed, as if talking through water, he finds he cannot deny her.

Her hair is long, her face young and fresh. In this place she is lightness and air, Sybil Crawley, always, before she had taken that sacred vow that changed her name and claimed her life. And she might smile and laugh, such actions unknowingly cruel, or simply stare sweetly enough to kill him. Occasionally she may speak, and he might speak back.

"You're not real," he eventually says.

She smiles, eyes crinkled, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You're not real," he repeats.

"How can you say that?" Her face falls. She looks wounded, and clutches his hand. "I'm right here, darling, why would you say that?"

She is not real. They are not real. There is only one reality left for them and so he tells her:

"Because you're dead."

She wanes.

"You're dead and you're never coming back," he proceeds. "You've gone away and sometimes…" He takes back his hand as her figure grows dim. "Sometimes all I want to do is follow."

"That doesn't sound like you." Her voice is barely a whisper.

He shakes his head sadly. "I'm never going to sound like me again," he replies, and she is gone.

When sunlight cascades through the drawn window he will rise again. But he does not seek her face in the sky, for he no longer looks at it. Nor listen for her voice in the wind, for he can no longer feel the breath of the earth, nor anything at all.

* * *

><p><em>As always, thanks for reading and for your kind reviews :)<em>


End file.
